Chapter 35
Maksim
The hotel door shuts behind us with a soft click.
Everything tonight between us feels too soft for the kind of violence sitting under my skin.
I should’ve killed him.
The thought has been looping since the estate, since the second Nikolai leaned back in his office chair like he still owned anything of mine and told me, cold as a grave, that I had two choices.
Take the compound.
Run the Bratva from there like a proper Pakhan should.
Or stay in Russia under him and let Kostya have the Bratva.
Kostya.
Fucking useless.
Like this whole trip.
I drag both hands over my face and stand there in the middle of the suite, breathing through my nose, trying not to put my fist through the nearest solid surface just to hear something crack.
He said it like it was reasonable.
Like handing the Bratva to Kostya wasn’t the same as soaking it in gasoline and tossing in a match.
My brother can fight. Fine. He can follow orders when someone stronger is standing in front of him. He can grin through blood and act like chaos is strategy.
But rule?
No.
If I’m consider reckless, he’s worse. Too sloppy. Too fucking eager to be seen. Men like that don’t build empires. They choke on them.
And Nikolai knows it.
Which means this isn’t about what’s best for the Bratva.
It’s about control.
Always fucking control.
He wants me under his roof, inside his walls, playing the son he can still summon across an ocean with one fucking demand. And when I don’t bend fast enough, he offers Kostya as the alternative like it’s a threat he knows will rot under my skin.
It does.
That’s what makes me want to go back and rip his throat open with my teeth.
I hear movement behind me. Quiet. Too quiet.
Ayla.
She’s been silent since we left the estate. No smart mouth. No questions.
No deliberate little defiance just to see if I bite.
Nothing.
At first I thought she was waiting. Storing it up. Sharpening her knives in private before she aimed them at me.
But the ride back passed in silence so thick it started pressing on my skull.
She sat in the passenger seat staring out the window, arms folded, face turned toward the city lights sliding over the glass, and every now and then I caught her looking at me like she wanted to ask something and thought better of it.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I turn.
Ayla stands by the bed looking… tired. That’s the only word I have for it.
Tired.
I watch her. Wait for something. A question. An accusation. A demand.
She gives me nothing.
Just toes off her heeled boots and reaches for the hem of her shirt.
My jaw tightens.
Say something.
The order is there, mean and immediate, but I don’t know if I’m giving it to her or myself.
She peels the shirt over her head and drops it onto a chair. Her hair falls loose skimming her shoulders, mussed from the breeze and the long drive back. Then her hands go to the button of her jeans.
Still silent. No fight. No attitude.
No bait.
The rage in me shifts. It doesn’t ease.
Just changes shape.
I should still be thinking about Nikolai. About Kostya. About the compound, the city, the men waiting on decisions I haven’t made yet.
Instead I’m watching Ayla push her jeans down her legs and step out of them.
My focus narrows.
Sharpens.
She’s in black underwear and exhaustion now, skin glowing in the low gold light of the suite, shoulders looser than they were at the estate but not relaxed. There’s something careful in the way she moves, as if she’s trying not to take up too much space tonight.
I hate that. Something cold curls in my chest at the sight of it.
I don’t want her careful. I want her bold. I want her mean.
Mouthy.
Stubborn enough to spit in the face of my temper.
I want the version of her that glares at me and says no like she thinks it means something.
Not this quiet girl undressing three feet away while I stand here full of another man’s rage.
She reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra. My eyes follow the motion automatically. Heat slides through me, low and dark, cutting straight through the rest of it.
Feeding the anger.
The hooks come loose. She slides the straps down her arms and lets the bra fall.
My mouth goes dry. She glances at me then. Finally.
Only for a second, but it’s enough.
Enough to show me she knows I’m looking. Enough to show me she’s felt every second of my silence. Enough to show me she still hasn’t decided whether to challenge it.
Her voice, when it comes, is quiet from disuse. “I’m going to shower.”
The words are small. Simple enough. They still hit like a match dropped in gasoline.
Because now I’m not looking at a problem I can’t solve or a father I didn’t kill or a brother I’d gladly bury.
Now I’m looking at her. At bare skin I enjoy marking with my mouth.
At the line of her throat I wrap my hand around often.
At the vulnerable arch of her back when she turns away from me.
At the fact that she’s in my hotel room, in the clothes I buy her one hour and out of them the next, quiet in a way that feels all wrong.
My interest settles lower. Harder.
Possession follows right behind it.
She takes a step toward the bathroom. I move before I decide to.
“Ayla.”
Her name comes out rough. She stops. And in the beat before she does, I realize the anger isn’t gone. Not even close. It just finally found somewhere to go.
She turns slowly. Arms loose at her sides, chin up just enough to remind me she’s not cowering. Her eyes meet mine—flat, assessing, still carrying whatever she swallowed on the drive back. No spark yet. No fire. Just that careful distance I want to burn out of her.
“Come here.”
The command is low, immediate. No room. No please.
She doesn’t move. One eyebrow lifts, fractional. “No.”
The word lands like a slap. My blood surges—hot, violent, grateful. She said it. Thank fuck she said it.
I step forward. Once. Twice. Closing the space until the heat of her skin brushes mine through the last thin layer of air between us. “Come. Here.”
Her lips part on a short, incredulous breath. Her eyes meet mine and her eyes widen a fraction.
“No way.” The words come out dry, edged. “You’re not taking whatever the fuck you have boiling in you out on me tonight, Maksim. Find another wall to punch.”
The refusal is perfect. Sharp. Personal. It hooks straight into the thing under my ribs that’s been clawing since Nikolai opened his mouth.
She’s not soothing me. She’s not bending. She’s daring me to prove I can’t have her any other way.
My hand moves before the thought finishes—fast, fingers curling around the nape of her neck, gripping the hair there tight enough to pull her head back. She hisses.
Her scalp gives under my fist; her throat arches, exposed, pulsing. I lean in until my mouth is a breath from the side of her neck.
“Then you can take your frustration out on me,” I say against her skin. The words scrape out, low and mean. “Fight me. Hurt me. I don’t care. Just stop standing there like you’re trying to leave.”
Her hands come up, fast, palms flat against my chest, shoving. Hard. Not enough to move me, but enough to make the message clear. “That’s not how this works.”
I don’t let go. Instead I tighten my grip in her hair, just enough to make her gasp—small, involuntary, furious.
My other hand slides down, rough, possessive, cupping between her legs through the thin black fabric. No tease. Just claiming what’s already mine.
She stiffens. Breath hitching. But she doesn’t pull away.
“You can’t pretend this isn’t what you want,” I murmur, teeth grazing the tendon along her throat. Not biting yet. Close enough to promise it.
“Your body doesn’t lie the way your mouth does. It’s always wet for me. Always ready. Even when you hate me.”
“That’s a fucking lie,” she snaps. Voice tight, trembling at the edges with rage. From the effort of holding herself together.
Her nails dig into my shirt, clawing fabric instead of skin. “You don’t get to decide what I want just because you’re hard and pissed off.”
The denial lights me up. Thrill snaps through me like live wire, because she’s fighting. Because every word costs her. Because she’s still here, half-naked, letting me hold her like this instead of running for the door. Her defiance is everything.
I press harder with my palm between her legs, slowly grinding, feeling the heat, the damp proof she can’t hide. “Say it again.”
Her eyes flash. “Fuck. You.”
I laugh—short, rough, more growl than sound, and drag my teeth along her throat, harder this time. A red line blooms under the pressure, but I don’t break skin, yet.
My grip in her hair yanks her head farther back so I can see her face, flushed, furious, pupils blown.
“Come on, Beda,” I rasp. “Keep lying. It makes me want to prove you wrong until you can’t speak.”
Her knee comes up, sharp, aimed, but I shift, trapping her thigh between mine, pinning her harder against the wall behind us. The impact jars a sound out of her, half curse, half moan. Her hands fist my shirt tighter, pulling instead of pushing now. Conflicted. Perfect.
“You think this fixes anything?” she hisses, voice fraying. “Your daddy issues? Your brother? This doesn’t make Nikolai disappear.”
The mention of him should kill the moment. It doesn’t. It feeds it.
Rage loops back, hotter, and I slam my mouth over hers—brutal, claiming, no finesse. She bites down on my lip hard enough to draw copper; I taste blood and groan into her mouth because it’s real.
I break the kiss only to drag my mouth back to her throat, sucking hard over the mark I left.
“This isn’t about him,” I say against her pulse. “This is about you raising those fucking walls like you forgot you’re suppose to stay. Don’t. Fucking. Do that.”
Her laugh is breathless, bitter. “You don’t own my cooperation, Maksim.”
“I own everything else.” My hand between her legs slips under the fabric now, fingers finding her so fucking wet. She jerks, curses, low and vicious, but her hips roll forward anyway. Betrayal of her own body. My favorite betrayal.